How she had coveted her mother’s beauty and sought to emulate it, if only to please her. She was definitely following him. Day after day—five, to be exact—she had returned to Morgan's; and each time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with a kindly smile would sit down at the piano and play. Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte. You do not make me afraid like this. I’ve got imagination. What was the old tabby at? Unaccountably embarrassed, he cleared his throat.
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